Human
by andjudar
Summary: Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier. When he wakes from cryostasis, nothing is as it seems.
1. Chapter 1

**HUMAN**

It was dark when he woke.

It shouldn't be dark, he thought. The room should have been brightly lit, with people busily buzzing around, just like when he had been put under. Steve should have been there. He had lost all notion of time but despite his dizzy state, he felt very clearly that something was wrong. Things were not the way they should be.

He didn't feel cold – not at all. Usually, whenever he had been woken from cryostasis before to do Hydra's dirty work, he had only felt the bone chilling cold until they mangled his brain. Then he just hadn't felt anything anymore. He wasn't sure if his own body had refused to feel so that the killing was easier or if it was the constant brainwashing that was taking its toll. But then again, it had made things much easier.

This time, everything was different. HE FELT. He felt warm and that worried him deeply. It was a strange feeling that rummaged around inside of him, this warmth was something new, something unexpected, something that scared him.

But, what worried him even more was the fact that he was out of cryostasis and there was nobody around. The deal he and Steve had struck with T'Challa, King of the Wakandans, after the showdown in Siberia was that he would be on deepfreeze until a "cure" for his dangerous condition was found. And he should be the first to know if the Wakandan scientists had found one, he contemplated.

He was a danger to society, to humankind, Bucky had realized that very moment Helmut Zemo had read from the book and activated the Winter Soldier in him, even though he had promised himself to never let it happen again. But it did, and he couldn't do anything about it. He hadn't been able to control himself then, no matter how hard he had tried, no matter how hard he had fought it. He had felt himself succumbing to the overpowering lure of the 'magic words'. He was sure that it might just happen again in any given momento and he was also sure that he would not be able to resist, no matter how hard he tried. That was why he was back in the tube in the first place.

He remembered those few days before the cryotube was activated one last time. He remembered – very vividly actually - when Steve had found him in Bucharest and their eventful race through Europe with its abrupt end in Berlin when this crazy Sokovian soldier activated the Winter Soldier in him. He remembered how hard he had fought to snap out of the daze that had kept him in killer mode and he remembered that he had only managed because of Steve. He remembered. HE REMEMBERED.

Steve … Captain America. That scrawny kid back in Brooklyn all those long years ago, now the glorious hero. His best friend, the man he had given his life for during the war over 70 years ago, the man who had brought him back from the path to destruction, the man who saved him from himself. Too many memories, too many feelings and he hated it. He hated it because he couldn't control them. He couldn't control the impact they had on his mind and heart.

He got confused every time he tried to piece things together the right way. Steve had tried to help him, but his brain was too scrambled, too twisted, too hurt. He kind of knew as a fact that he had joined the army and left Steve behind. He kind of knew as a fact that he had been captured by Hydra during a raid and rescued by Steve. He kind of knew that he had died, trying to protect Steve. However, he didn't only know from second hand sources, he actually remembered that Hydra had done some nasty experimenting on him. And he remembered that a small and ugly man had done unspeakable things to him, turning him into the killing machine he was now.

Steve had helped him to at least establish some sort of timeline but it only made him realize how many people he must have killed. He remembered every single kill, but he couldn't remember the faces of many of them. Most of the time, they blurred together and haunted him in the few hours of uneasy sleep that he had allowed himself during his time of hiding in Bucharest.

He was seriously fucked up, that was the one thing he knew for sure. He was a broken piece of machinery, he had stopped working correctly and he was almost sure that there was no help for him to get rid of the conditioning Hydra had engrained to deeply in his mind. He was lost and obviously beyond any help.

Before, the emptiness in his head and heart had been some sort of a blessing, he would receive his orders and comply. He would embrace the blankness and just function, but lately, that feeling of having missed out on so any things just because he couldn't remember was weighing heavy on him. Normal, even casual daily routines turned into difficult situations.

When he lived in that little apartment in Bucharest, he had gotten by basically never really leaving it. It was hard for him to blend in, or at least that was what he believed. His bulky frame must stand out, he was sure. And in those very few occasions of going out, he made sure to not mingle and socialize, just in case. His metal arm might have raised some questions. He always thought that people would recognize him, he was certain that Hydra – or what was left of it - was looking for him.

Ironically, he was made by a civilian over something as innocent as buying plums at the local street market. And that had just been the beginning. But then again, he could understand that people freaked out over things they didn't understand. And he was a riddle in himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the dim, greenish darkness in the room and he realized that he was not in the room with the beautiful and peaceful view of the lake where he had been when they put him under. This room didn't have any windows and he didn't see any of the scientific equipment that had been around him before. It was just four murky walls, the dark green paint peeling off and a large dark green metal door right in front of him, with a broken exit sign dangling above it.

It was somewhat odd that he had not noticed before that he was in a different room. There had been too much going on in his head to comprehend. His tongue felt dry and thick against his cracked lips when he tried to wet them. Maybe it was just a dream? A bad dream? But then again, he had never dreamt before. And to be honest, it didn't look much like a dream. This all looked quite real. He felt the hard plastic cover of the inside of the cryotube. He remembered it too well. After all, he had spend most of his time inside one.

Maybe the Wakandan scientists had come up with a major breakthrough! And he just hadn't been made aware of it. Maybe they had told him and he had already forgotten? But then, why was he in here and not in the lab? He thought of those last moments before falling into deep, dreamless cryosleep. He remembered how quiet everything had been, even though there were at least 20 people working in the lab. He kind of missed the peaceful view that he could enjoy while slowly falling asleep.

This place looked a lot like the place Pierce had held him during the first missions, it had only been throughout his last four missions– their targets being Fury, Sitwell, Romanoff and Rogers – that he had brought him to Washington D.C. to have the Winter Solder more readily available, as Pierce had put it. But Pierce was dead, wasn't he? He had died the same moment that the Winter Soldier had finally taken his long lost life back.

Panic – another new feeling - was rising and he didn't feel that he could control it. There was an itch on his forehead, a drop of sweat had formed on his hairline and was trickling down ever so slowly. Instinctively, he raised his right hand to wipe it away but only got halfway up before he froze dead in his tracks. His restraints had been loosened! What had happened? Had he gone all Winter Soldier on the scientists without him remembering anything? Where was everyone? Why was he in here? If he had gone ballistic on everybody then how had he ended up back inside the cryotube? Nothing made sense.

He brushed his hand across his chest but didn't find any ECG nodes. There were also no IV's conencted to his arms. Where was the feeding tube? How long had he been like this? Had he somehow been activated? But even if, it didn't make much sense and it didn't explain why his cryotube was down here. Also, he was quite sure that T'Challa would not have allowed another killing spree. The Black Panther would have simply put him down. He had promised as much.

Testing, he raised both hands and carefully – almost gently – pushed against the tempered glass. It opened without a problem. Ever so quietly, he carefully opened the lid and crawled out. He felt week – this was also a new feeling that scared him – and his legs trembled a he now took a few hesitant steps away from the tube. The sudden pang of hunger gnawed at his intestines.

Bucky moved towards the door, slowly recovering from the unexpected pain in his stomach that had him almost doubled over. Once again he wondered how long he had been out of cryostasis and without the feeding tube. Judging by his hunger, it must have been quite a while. He felt awfully weak…and very hungry. Both were undesired feelings as he felt they inhibited his brain to think straight.

There was no handle so he pressed his fingernails into the slim crease and pulled at it. Surprise – again! The door opened silently so that he could slip through but he didn't just leave without looking back one last time to what used to be a prison and a home at the same time. A very dysfunctional home, to say the least. But then again, he also hadn't felt much at home in the dirty little apartment he hid in in Bucharest.


	3. Chapter 3

He found himself in a wide corridor, dark and dank, with the same dirty greenish color that had covered the walls in the room he woke up in, except for the occasional flicker of the broken halogen headlights every four to five seconds. He hesitated for a moment, it felt as if his legs just didn't want to move. He leant against the wall next to the door, panting even though he hadn't moved much. It was as if his heart was beating violently in his chest but when he checked, his pulse was calm. Of course it was calm, he was trained for situations like those.

The hallway was empty except for the halogen lights on the ceiling every few meters. Once every 30 meters or so, there was a door, placed deep into the concrete. When he got closer, he realized that those also didn't have a handle on them, just like the door to the room he was in. He tried some of them but they didn't open. Half-heartedly, he moved forward. Why was there nobody around? Where had everybody gone? When he had come to this facility, he had been amazed at the size and open layout of the complex but he had never seen any of those endless passageways.

He knew he needed to move on. Something had happened and he had absolutely no idea. He didn't know if he was in danger, he didn't know if there were people in need. He had been totally oblivious to what was going on around him during cryosleep and woken up to utter silence and complete absence of people. There was no trace of anything living anywhere around him, and that bothered the hell out of him.

Suddenly, an icy shiver ran down his spine. What if he wasn't in the facility anymore? He knew that he had been moved while inside the cryotube, it was more than obvious, but until now he hadn't even thought about the fact that he might just be in a totally different – and unknown – place. He needed to get out of here and find his bearings.

Where had everybody gone? As far as he knew, he was not where he was supposed to be. But still, the many people he had seen when he had come in couldn't just have vanished. This had been a working facility, according to T'Challa they were processing most of the country's vibranium resources here. But right now, it didn't look like anything was being processed here. This was a dead place. He knew a dead place when he saw one, he had lived in several of those for quite some time before he was caught by the Avengers.

He finally realized that he couldn't possibly be in that same facility where he had been put under. Steve would have found out, and he didn't take T'Challa for a man who would not be true to his word. And even if he was such a man, Steve would not have let him. That was just who Steve was.

Ever so slowly, he crept through the dimly lit and seemingly endless corridors, turning left and turning right. But there was no exit. With his back against the wall, almost tiptoeing as he went, he tried to be as unobtrusive as possible. Now, with his left arm gone, he felt that the just couldn't go about dangerous business as usual. He still had all his skills, but he was very aware that his strength was gone.

Again, he tried a couple of doors while moving – faster and faster all the time - further down the corridor which seemed to be going on forever. He glanced backwards from time to time just to make sure that he didn't miss anything. But there was nothing, just the greenish walls and the doors with the bad paint job.

Now he came to a sharp turn. The flickering of the lights was much heavier here as if the wiring was somehow on a slight but constant overload. He slowed down and once again, pressed himself against the wall, listening intently with his eyes closed. But there was no sound at all, just the hard and loud beating of his heart. It beat too hard that he thought it would break out of his chest. Consciously concentrating on breathing in and out, he tried to still his heart but it was harder than he thought.

Right after this turn, there was an intersection, where each of the corridors had two doors right before the end of each wall. He tried the one on his side – locked – and then slowly reached around the corner to try the one closest to him to his right. Suddenly, a sharp pain flamed up in the palm of his hand as he pulled it back hurriedly whilst flattening himself against the wall. There was a cut right in the middle of his palm, oozing blood. It stung and burnt but didn't appear to be too deep. He clenched his hand into a fist until his knuckles turned white. What had happened? He inched forward again, back still pressed hard against the wall, slowly peering around the corner to find out what had cut him.

It was darker in that corridor but the flickering lights from the one he had come from extended enough to reflect on the shards of metal sticking from the door handle where he had cut his hand. There was some blood handing on the sharp tips and pooling in the craters. He stared at it intently. It looked like somebody had fired a shot at it…trying to get in maybe? A stray shot maybe? But…it was too perfectly positioned to be a stray bullet, from how it looked it seemed to be a close range shot right in the middle.

Carefully, to not cut himself again, he took the blasted knob between two fingers and turned it. Miraculously, this door popped open.


End file.
